


Redacted

by LogicGunn



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Baptism, Cultural Misunderstandings, M/M, Religious Cleansing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29470356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicGunn/pseuds/LogicGunn
Summary: The thing is, Rodney’s read John’s entire personnel file, the unredacted one that doesn’t have thirteen pages of continuous blacked out text, and so he knows that what Edreim is insisting on will have a far greater impact than the spirit with which it is intended. It’ll be like hammering a nail with a wrecking ball; liable to break down the whole house. Not only will John never make that kind of verbal faux pas again, but there’s also a chance he might stop speaking altogether.
Relationships: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Comments: 18
Kudos: 102
Collections: Romancing McShep 2021





	Redacted

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2021 Romancing McShep Fest. <3

For once it’s not Rodney who steps on the conversational landmine. 

“We’re always on the lookout for new allies. Hell, we’re just happy not to be shot at.” 

The stunned silence that follows is both momentous and familiar. 

Of all the things John has said on a first contact mission, this doesn’t even come close to the most risqué, but it turns out the Andrim are a deeply pious people – akin to a church of fundamentalist Catholics on Earth – and even uttering the word ‘hell’ is a mortal sin. A ripple of outrage spreads from the Clergymen in the middle of the temple and right out to the laymen by the walls 

“Blasphemer!” 

“Desecrator!” 

“Heretic!” 

Things get heated quickly, loud and rambunctious, though not to the point where any member of AR-1 feels the need to pull out a gun. John holds his empty hands up placatingly and looks each of the clergymen in the eye. 

“I apologise for my words,” he says in a loud, commanding voice. “In no way did I mean to offend you.” 

The head Clergyman, Edreim, silences the room with a wave of a hand. 

“Clearly things are different where you are from,” he says, not unkindly. “Here we are more careful in our word choice.” 

John takes the rebuke with the humility that Edreim and the other clergymen expect. He ducks his head down low and drops his eyes to Edreim’s feet, his mouth a grim, straight line. Rodney can’t stand such a look of submissiveness on his team leader, wants to shake John by the shoulders and snap him out of it and insist that they get out of here, but he can’t. They need this trade deal if they’re going to persuade the powers that be on Earth that Atlantis can survive as a self-sufficient colony. 

“Perhaps a show of contrition, to atone for your sin?” suggests Edreim. It’s phrased as a question, but Rodney knows better, and so does John. Edreim’s enjoying this, the red-robed, mitre-wearing bastard. 

John nods his head. “I’d be happy to demonstrate my remorse.” 

“Approach.” 

All four of them walk up to the altar where Edreim is seated. John takes up position right in front of him, Rodney just behind to John’s right, Teyla to John’s left and Ronon, where he prefers to be, at the rear watching their six. They all keep their eyes low and their backs straight in solidarity with John, lest they be accused of something heretic also. Edreim stands, his long robes billowing dramatically as he steps forward. 

“In light of your...otherworldliness, we will forgo the ritual whipping.” Rodney’s relief is mirrored by a loosening of the tension in John’s neck. “Instead you shall undergo a ritual cleansing.” 

That doesn’t sound too bad. A sprinkling of Holy Water and a few Hail Mary’s and they’ll be able to get down to business. Still, this is Pegasus and one man’s Holy Water is another man’s Hydrochloric Acid. 

“What exactly does this ritual cleansing entail?” he asks, his thighs braced and ready in case they need to hightail it out of there. 

“It’s quite simple,” says Edreim. “It is a tried and tested ritual to cleanse the sinner of whatever immorality caused them to transgress. In the Colonel’s case, whatever caused him to Blaspheme. He will be bound to a chair and the members of the Council will each douse him with a jug of Holy Water until the sin is washed away.” 

And just like that, John’s entire body tenses up, his shoulders drawing up towards his ears and his hands clenching so tight on his P90 that his knuckles are white. Teyla and Ronon both notice it too, their hands drifting up casually until they’re resting on their own P90s, because John Sheppard tensing up like that is a sure sign that they’re about to enter into a firefight. But this time, Rodney knows better. 

The thing is, Rodney’s read John’s entire personnel file, the unredacted one that doesn’t have thirteen pages of continuous blacked out text, and so he knows that what Edreim is insisting on will have a far greater impact than the spirit with which it is intended. It’ll be like hammering a nail with a wrecking ball; liable to break down the whole house. Not only will John never make that kind of verbal faux pas again, but there’s also a chance he might stop speaking altogether. 

And so it falls to Rodney to cushion the blow somehow. While all attention is on a rigid and temporarily mute John, Rodney unzips his tac vest. 

“Alright, let's get this party started,” he says loudly. 

All probing eyes turn to him, which is exactly what he was going for, and he makes a show out of stepping in front of John and handing him his vest. John lifts a hand automatically and takes it from Rodney wordlessly, his mouth pressed into a thin red line and nostrils widening with discomfort. There’s confusion etched into the lines around his eyes but the trust between them implicit enough that John goes along with what he must view as Rodney’s temporary insanity. 

“Excuse me, Doctor McKay, but what exactly are you doing?” asks Edreim, as Rodney unbuckles his belt and hands his holster and gun over to John. 

“I’m taking off my clothes. I don’t want them to get wet when you douse me.” 

“Forgive me, but there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. It is Colonel Sheppard who has transgressed, so it is he that will be doused.” 

Rodney yanks his t-shirt out of his pants and pulls it up and over his head. He’s never been a fan of putting his scientist’s body on display, but needs must, and there’s very little he wouldn’t do for his team and absolutely nothing he wouldn’t do for John. “Colonel Sheppard is my amoureux,” he says, draping the t-shirt over John’s outstretched arm. “His punishments land on me.” 

“I’m afraid I-” 

“Is this not the way of your people also?” asks Teyla, finally catching on, so earnest that you’d think her sincere. God bless Teyla’s quick mind. “Where we come from, a person’s inamorato is responsible for his or her actions.” 

“No. It is not. I appreciate Doctor McKay’s...affections for the Colonel, but-” 

Teyla presses on as Rodney bends down to unlace his boots. “Should it not be, Councillor, that in the interests of diplomacy, as we respect your customs you must also respect ours?” 

“Well yes, but-” 

“Well then, it’s settled. You will deliver a punishment for Colonel Sheppard’s actions, as is your custom, and Doctor McKay will take the punishment as is ours.” 

God, Teyla is good at this. You would think the shit Rodney is making up on the spot is old news to the team. Thank fuck they have the weight of years’ worth of history together to pull this off. 

“Oh, well...yes of course,” agrees Edreim. “Doctor McKay can...a-and should...sit in Colonel Sheppard’s place.” 

Rodney looks over at John, pale as a sheet and standing still and rigid as a rock, holding Rodney’s vest in one hand and gripping his t-shirt and holster with the other. It could be that the act of watching Rodney getting drenched will be an uncomfortable experience, but it’s got to be better than a pseudo-waterboarding for someone who has been tortured in Afghanistan. 

Rodney puts on an air of solemn piety and drops his trousers, thanking his lucky stars that he chose the plain grey boxers today instead of the Star Trek ones he picked up first. He kicks his trousers over to John’s feet and turns back to Edreim. 

“Well?” he asks. 

Edreim gestures to the chair he just vacated and Rodney sits down with his ass right to the back, owning it like he’s in a meeting with his scientists. Several of the clergymen step forward to tie his limbs to the arms and legs of the chair, and he’s quickly bound and trussed like a turkey at Christmas. Rodney flexes his hands and feet to test the straps for give but he’s held still and strong. In another situation, with someone special, it might invoke feelings of trust and perhaps even lust, but in this cavernous hall, clad in his old, sagging boxers and surrounded by old, wrinkled men, it couldn’t be further from an erotic moment if he tried. 

Rodney looks back at his team, Teyla and Ronon scoping out the whole room and keeping an eye on Rodney’s six, and John, standing there like some kind of living, breathing clothes horse, still unmoving and unspeaking, his eyes bulging out of his skull and his mouth so taut as to be airtight. Rodney spares a thought for John’s comfort before giving in to the inevitable. He nods at Edreim, who gestures to the men lining up behind Rodney's back, and the first jug of Holy Water is dumped unceremoniously over his head. 

Rodney gasps, sucking air in through his teeth because it’s so unexpectedly cold. He manages not to cry out but it’s a close thing as the freezing water pours down his head and chest and back, soaking through his boxers to chill his dick and force his balls so far into his body that he can feel them in his stomach. He opens his eyes, blinking away the water to take a look at his team. Ronon and Teyla are standing on either side of a hyper-stressed John; so tense is he that he looks like he’ll snap in two at the barest pressure. 

Rodney closes his eyes again, sensing someone new pressing in behind him, and braces just in time as the second icy jug of water is poured over him. It’s easier this time, less of a shock, but he forgot to count how many of the Andrim’s clergymen were wearing the gold tassels of the upper circle so he has no idea how many more of these he has to endure. The third follows closely, and Rodney opens his eyes again to look at the water spreading out over the floor, soaking his team’s boots and flowing in rivulets towards a central drain in the church that is surely in place for just this kind of event. 

Edreim steps forward, and for a moment, Rodney thinks it’s over, but he just guides him to tilt his head back so his face is to the ceiling, and another jug is unexpectedly poured slowly over him from above. It’s a lot like sticking his head face-first into a waterfall, the water flowing over his eyes and nose and mouth, unending and chilling and impossible to breathe. Rodney’s lungs try to pull in air by reflex and Rodney’s mouth is flooded with water. He chokes a little, starts to cough, but thankfully the flow ends and he can breathe again. 

A noise catches his attention, a choked off grunt of fear and anger, and when he opens his eyes he sees that John has dropped his tac vest and clothes and is being held back by Teyla’s strong arm over his chest and Ronon’s firm hand on his bicep. The look on John's face Rodney has only seen a handful of times; it’s the look of a man who can kill sixty Genii with the press of a button and lose no sleep over it or fly a nuke into a Wraith Hiveship with no thought to his own safety, only that of the people he cares about. He’s still non-verbal, but clearly planning his next move to rescue Rodney from what he views as a torture session. Rodney has to do something to alleviate that fear. 

“I’m fine, Colonel,” he says, and he manfully refrains from yelping as the fifth jug is poured over his head, faster than the last but just as cold. The sixth, seventh, and eighth jugs are background noise to the moment that’s happening between him and John; John’s straining determination to save him from a fate worse than death and Rodney’s attempts to project that he’s fine through facial muscles and body language alone. Ronon’s grip becomes white-knuckled on John’s arm as John struggles harder, he’s going to have bruises tomorrow, but Rodney’s thankful that his team are smart enough not to let John do something rash that would undermine their attempts to open up a trade agreement and totally negate Rodney’s noble sacrifice. The only real danger here is that of wrinkled fingers and toes. 

The ninth and final jug is poured from the hands of Edreim himself, standing in front of Rodney, not behind. He doesn’t seem to care that the water soaks through the hem of his robes, is clearly positively gleeful that he’s getting to participate in a purifying ritual. It occurs to Rodney that perhaps they don’t actually get to do this all that often, that the people of Andrim might be too indoctrinated and too well behaved for an untimely “hell” to slip out from between their lips. Maybe this will have a positive impact on their trade agreement, the fact that that the foreigners willingly participated in a sacred ritual, and the transgression will be forgotten. 

At least, that’s how Rodney’s going to word it on his report. 

As Edreim steps away, John breaks free of Ronon and Teyla’s grip, or maybe they let him go, all that matters is that John is kneeling in front of him on the wet ground, slicing through the leather bindings with his Ka-bar and checking him over with his hands and eyes for injuries and hurts. 

“I’m fine, John. Really. It’s just a little water.” 

John pulls Rodney's head down to press their foreheads together. “It’s not just anything. You could have been hurt.” 

“I’m not. I’m okay. Just very wet and a bit cold.” 

John pulls back at that, reaches into a pocket on his vest and pulls out a plastic-wrapped space blanket. He’s about to tear it open with his teeth when Edreim drapes a warm, soft towel over Rodney's shoulders. 

“It’s not often someone faces the ritual of purity with such grace,” he says, and maybe Rodney did, but he did it for John, not for these clergymen and their archaic ways. 

“I’d like to get dressed.” 

“Of course. I will show you to my office where you can dress in peace, though I suspect that Colonel Sheppard will wish to join you.” 

“You’re da...rn right about that,” says John, correcting himself just in time. He stands and pulls Rodney up, then gathers Rodney’s clothes and leads him boldly through the curtains at the back of the temple and into a candle-lit office. Edreim steps out, drawing the curtains closed behind himself, but Rodney’s under no misconception that the privacy it affords is anything more than an illusion. He looks to John, who’s standing there with Rodney’s clothes in his arms working his bottom lip between his teeth. Neither man moves, something passing between them, something that Rodney can’t quite name. Teyla’s voice interrupts their silent contemplation, words of gratitude and friendship to the Andrim that John clearly doesn’t support if his frown is anything to go by. 

“Really, Sheppard, I’m fine.” 

Sheppard just grunts and dumps Rodney’s clothes unceremoniously on the table, sorting through them to untangle Rodney’s trousers. He holds them out to Rodney, carefully not looking as Rodney drops his sodden boxers to the ground and steps out of them. He dries roughly with the towel then pulls his trousers on, tucking himself in and pulling the zip away from his body so he doesn’t catch anything. God, how he hates to go commando, but contrary to John and Ronon’s teasing, he doesn’t actually carry a change of clothing in his tac vest. The next few hours are going to be extremely uncomfortable; oh how Rodney hates chafing. 

John holds out Rodney’s t-shirt next. “You know,” he says quietly, and it’s not a question. 

“I do,” whispers Rodney, because he can’t exactly deny it at this point, can he? No more than he can un-read John’s file or un-see the pictures of his wounds. There’s a whole world of difference between seeing someone’s scars and seeing the wounds that made them, and if Rodney’s honest with himself he’s greatly affected by what he saw in John’s file, has been trying hard not to let it change the way he treats him or speaks to him, but he just couldn’t stand back and let John go through something like that again, it’s absolutely anathema to his- 

“Hey, hey,” says John, stepping forward and stilling Rodney’s waving hands, and Rodney realises that he’s said all that out loud. “You should have said something.” 

“I didn’t want to embarrass you,” replies Rodney, acutely aware that John is still holding his hands up in between them. He makes to pull back, but John won’t let go. 

“Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome. Any time.” 

John notices their hands, pulls away sharply and rubs the back of his neck as Rodney sits to pull on his socks and boots. He wrings out his boxers and shoves them in a pocket on his vest, carrying it back through to the main chamber instead of putting it on. Teyla’s forged ahead with the negotiations, thank god, and as Rodney and John are motioned to approach and sit in the chairs on either side of her, Rodney does some mental gymnastics to try to catch up with what they’ve missed. Negotiations aren’t his strong suit, it’s usually all he can do to sit quietly and not fall asleep, but he’s already invested so much into this interplanetary relationship that he wants to see it through to the end. 

For once, the negotiations are quick and efficient, the Andrim already having an idea of what they want in exchange for a percentage of their harvest and several bolts of the sturdily woven cloth that they are famous for. They don’t ask for anything that the expedition isn’t happy to give, no weapons or bio-weapons or dangerous tech, and their terms are fair and generous if they’re to be taken at face value, which Teyla seems happy to do. Rodney trusts her instincts implicitly, and as he had hoped, it seems his inclusion in a local ritual has warmed the Andrim to them. On first unsmiling meeting, Rodney had cast them as indifferent, stick-in-the-mud, pre-industrial religious nut-jobs, but now, seeing their generosity and the smiles of Edreim as they break bread with them, Rodney thinks that they might just have found themselves some real friends. 

John’s smile is as fake as the chicken they served in the mess hall last night, but even that doesn’t deter Edreim from making small talk with him, enquiring about some of the scars he has on display and making all the right sympathetic noises when John explains how he fractured his wrist skateboarding as a child and it never quite healed right. John wisely doesn’t mention that he can feel atmospheric changes deep down in the bone of his wrist, something that he has manfully complained of to Rodney in times of weakness (*cough*inebriation*cough*). 

They leave the settlement and head for the ‘gate with a promising trade agreement and the tentative first blossoms of a new friendship, something that will go a long way to convincing the IOA that Atlantis as an Earth colony will be a boon to the Milky Way. They’re a couple of years away from agricultural independence; the so-called Eden Project that the botany department has thrown themselves at won’t be ready to feed the expedition for another year or so, and even then, its nutritional value is limited to carbohydrates. Proteins and fats are next on the agenda, but will only get the green light if stage one is a success. Some of the grains that the Andrim grow have a protein value similar to quinoa, and their not-olives are rich in fats of the kind that Beckett and Keller approve of. The value of this alliance can’t be understated. 

“So...” says John out of nowhere, bringing Rodney’s attention back to what’s going on around him. 

“Hmmm?” says Rodney, looking at John. 

John’s gaze drops to Rodney’s lips then snaps back up to his eyes. “Am I really your amoureux?” 

“Oh.” Rodney averts his eyes, thankful that Teyla and Ronon are far enough ahead to be out of earshot. He could lie, spin John some BS about him being a quick-thinking genius, and thank the heavens for that, but the look on John’s face is open and inviting, and Rodney finds himself telling the truth. “Yes. You are. Is that going to be a problem?” 

John’s silent for a moment and Rodney feels his heart contract in his chest painfully. This is worse than being drenched in ice-cold water, worse than- 

“I understand that kind of position comes with some perks," says John, quietly.   


“Perks? What are you-” 

John looks left and right, then makes like a stealth bomber and attacks Rodney in a dive-by-cheek-kissing, leaving Rodney stunned and a little giddy as he speeds up to converge with the rest of the team up ahead. Rodney touches his hand to the spot where John’s lips pressed against his skin, eyes suddenly opened to new possibilities. If John feels...then they can... 

“Wait for me!” yells Rodney, and he sets off at a sprint to catch up. 


End file.
